


A Permanent Mark

by punkddiva



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Comfort, F/M, I'm Sorry, Sadness, Tattoos, Warden Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-05-18
Packaged: 2018-11-02 02:36:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkddiva/pseuds/punkddiva
Summary: The Warden dies at Denerim, and Alistair finds it near impossible to cope with the emptiness in his heart and the memories in his mind. A unique idea pulls him through.





	A Permanent Mark

It felt like a fatal blow.  
Well, it was. For her. That didn’t make it any less painful though, watching her blade slide into the archdemon and the corresponding death of his Warden. His love. His darling. He barely registered the cry that escaped his lips as she slumped to the ground and the shriek of darkspawn retreating filled the cool night air on the ruins of Denerim city streets. He ran to her- of course he ran, abandoning the straggling Genlock which had halfheartedly lashed out at him during its fearful escape and knelt at her side.  
He wept.  
He cried out to Wynne, “She’s hurt, please, do something,” but he knew. Of course he knew. Nothing could be done. _In peace, vigilance. In war, honor. In death, sacrifice. _That was what the wardens knew to be true, that a life could be mourned for a time but soon must be let to rest with the solace in knowing that the only real glory was in final sacrifice. He knew this, but still he wept.__  
The streets were cleared, the rest of his friends gathered around to see her once more, before she was properly cared for and burned, an honorable funeral the king would be expected to arrange. But at that moment, Alistair wasn’t a king. He wasn’t even a warden. He was a heartbroken man cradling his light’s limp form in his arms, being unable to tell the difference between her blood and his, hardly noticing the tears still running down his face. Only Leliana tried to say something, whispering his name and reaching out to put a consoling hand on his shoulder.  
“Alistair.” His silence was enough for her to know that no one could get through to him, not now, possibly not for a very, very long time.

They held her funeral on the brightest day Ferelden had known in a long time. How cruelly ironic, it seemed to him as he watched her flames rejoined the breeze and drift away. The world was bright, but his seemed so much darker now that she was no longer in it.  
He stayed until dark, until long after his numb speech and the quiet murmurs of condolences uttered by his people faded as they streamed around, paying their respects to the fallen Warden. He stayed and muttered her name, over and over, under his breath, through waves of tears and cries of agony, the wound of having his heart ripped out of his chest still feeling so fresh and so painful, until his voice was ragged and he could hear only the sounds of his shallow breathing accompanying the howl of wolves nearby in the forest.  
When all he could feel was nothing, he made his decision, returning slowly to his keep and gathering some belongings, leaving a gently scrawled note:  
_I’ll be back soon. -Alistair ___  
It seemed like an understatement, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He trusted Eamon to run things for him while he was away, and besides, what good could he be as king with his world shattered anyway?  
Feeling more lost than he’d felt in a very long time, he made his way carefully to the place where it was they’d last set up camp in the woods outside Denerim. The last place he’d seen her smile and heard her laugh, as she kissed him and said “I will be alright, love, as will you. Now get some rest.” It was the only time she’d ever lied to him, and they both knew it was a lie, but Alistair was still determined to make the final blow. Not out of vigilance, not out of honor, not even out of sacrifice. He just wanted her to be okay. A little selfishly, too, he didn’t want to live without her.  
Setting up camp on his own was an experience he’d long forgotten, but the solitude and effort helped to quiet his aching mind. Too soon he was finished, lying on his bedroll and peering up at the stars.  
_“And that one- has something to do with Andraste, right?” ___  
_“Yes, my love.” ___  
_“And that one-”_  
His train of thought drifted towards the memories of nights together under the stars, Morrigan groaning in disgust from the other side of the camp, and his smirk in response, making a subtle comment about “witches, you know?” Countless nights counting the constellations, each star meaning _something_ to her. Each star meaning something to him now. She was… so gentle, he thought, as dreaded sleep overtook him. The Fade was where she haunted him most.

_____ _

Days went by, and each one brought a new memory which stung like poison. Each day was filled with more sorrow and desperation, until Alistair realized he had reached his breaking point. A sense of curious calm overtook him, like that before a storm, as he bathed in the nearby stream and ran his hands over his bare skin.  
He sent word with a passing traveler that very morning, a dwarven caravan he and his warden had known in the happier days- maker, the irony- before. He prayed his letter would reach its recipient soon, though he was sure very few knew where Zevran had gone after the Blight was ended. He himself did not know, though if someone had told him, he was sure that he would not have noticed.  
Despite his doubts, Zevran arrived at the camp the next day near daybreak.  
“You came.” He recoiled at the sound of his own voice, rough and quiet with disuse. He was sure he was a sorry sight, especially when he noticed the genuine concern in the Antivan’s eyes, yet Zevran still cracked a smile in response.  
“Ah, you seem surprised, my friend. Yes, I came; I heard that the king of Ferelden required my services- how could I refuse?” He chuckled, a dry sound that Alistair recognized as a shadow of the elf’s former charismatic laugh. _So he’s still mourning as well. _Of course he was. She was his dearest friend, and a friendship like that can never be forgotten or replaced.__  
“You don’t need to put on pretenses, Zevran, I understand how you feel. Of course I do.” The carefully constructed smirk slowly crumbled. He sighed, dropping his face in his hands and shaking his head. _He’s tired _, Alistair realized. He’d never seen him look so tired, not even after the failed ambush that left his fate originally so uncertain.__  
“What was it you needed? You were not… specific, in your letter.” Alistair joined him near the fire, the crackling sparks filling the following silence.  
“A… well. I don’t want you to think-” It had been a while since Alistair had been flustered, and a genuine smirk returned to Zevran’s face.  
“A... what? I’m afraid you’ll need to elaborate.” Alistair gestured to his torso, arms and back.  
“A tattoo, I guess. I don’t know. Vallaslin? Similar to the markings on your face. I just- I need it. For her.” The atmosphere regained its air of understanding solemnity.  
“You assume I know how.”  
“Please, I heard- I heard you mention it to her, once. You learned how among the Crows.” The steel glint in Zevran’s eyes told him he was correct, yet he immediately regretted mentioning it. How many nights had he heard the elf awake in his tent, restless and unsettled, or sleep talking about the horrors he’d experienced?  
“Not a time in my life I prefer to remember, my friend.” He sighed, looking at Alistair directly. “Are you sure? It is a permanent thing, a commitment one might say, not easily erased. Are you positive you want this reminder? I know it is… a hard thing, grieving her, but I would just like you to-” A determined silence answered his query. “Very well. It will take me a day at least to find the necessary inks and tools, but I shall return shortly.” And he was gone again.  
The silence set in quickly, that which Alistair had become accustomed to transforming into something confining, locking him into his mind and his thoughts. Was this something she would really want? Would she care? He decided she wouldn’t, either way. But he loved her, and he needed her, and she was gone. Maybe she wouldn’t care or approve, but maybe this wasn’t for her. Maybe this was for him.

_____ _

When Zevran returned, Alistair was more at peace than he’d been for weeks, though his heart still stung at every reminder of his Warden’s existence (and there were no shortages of reminders. Everywhere he looked, there was something). Few words were spoken before Alistair carefully removed his shirt and sat down near the now empty fire pit from the nights before, his friend moving to kneel behind him.  
The sharp point of a needle piercing his skin caused him to draw a sharper breath. _Maker, that hurts. _Soon the repetitive scratches faded into a numbing pain which barely registered in his conscious, instead taking him to a place where she was, where they were happy.__  
_Scratch. Her brilliant smile. _A sob.__  
_Scratch. Her kind eyes. _Another sob.__  
_Scratch. Her gentle touch._ Another.  
_Scratch. Her musical laugh._ Over and over, the thoughts and memories, every single detail he may have forgotten, came flooding back, the curve of her fingers, arch of her back, sloping collarbones, soft hair, mannerisms, the way she’d sleepily call his name in the morning, how she only liked certain cheeses and despised others, her preference for his tent over her own no matter how stiflingly hot the nights could become in the summers, her admiration for the courageous and good, and- _Andraste _she was a good person, there would never, _could_ never be one better, and how he missed her with all his bruised heart, and- and it was over. The tears came quicker now, _ over, over, over_ just echoing in his mind, vaguely aware of the wracking sobs emanating from Zevran behind him.  
They both cried until they ran out of tears, staring at each other but not really seeing. Regaining some sense of self, Alistair reached behind him to run his hand over the new tattoo, feeling the raised and angry skin beneath his fingertips, and the pain inside him soothed just a bit. Though he couldn’t see it himself, he knew what was there: a griffon with a rose clutched in its claws.  
It was one of the first things he’d ever said to her, when he realized he was falling in love, and the first gift he’d ever given her. A rose, simple as that, a little corny perhaps, but he meant what he said. _"I remember thinking, how could something so beautiful exist in a place with so much despair and ugliness? I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't. The darkspawn would come and their taint would just destroy it. So I've had it ever since . . . . I thought that I might…give it to you, actually. In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you."_ He meant every word. And now both the rose, and her ferocity, were with him always. The ink under his skin was now a permanent reminder of that.  
Suddenly, Alistair didn’t feel so alone, the breeze blowing over his shoulders the barest memory of her whisper or caress. Now he knew she’d never really leave him.  
And he would learn to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This is my first fic so please let me know what you think, I'm always looking to improve and really appreciate any feedback you have for me.


End file.
